


A way to stay by your side

by Winxhelina



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afterlife, Character Deaths, I hope no religious people take this too seriously, Multi, Rebirth, Religious Themes, sherlock's a ghost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9640244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winxhelina/pseuds/Winxhelina
Summary: Inspired by Val Andrews's "The Ghost of Baker street"While reading it I found it unfair that John was in paradise and Sherlock was left behind. It was necessary for the plot, but I also felt that it would be unlikely for John to just accept the fact that Sherlock was never going to get to join him. I decided to fix it. Or make it worse.





	1. Chapter 1

There were some new people in Sherlock’s living room. He hoped they would be interesting. Perhaps he should have waited a little longer, before making his appearance, but he had been curious. And alone. _Oh so very alone_ , much more than he cared to admit.

The couple was having some sort of an argument, about what, Sherlock had yet to understand. The man was a doctor in his twenties and the woman a nurse. Sadly, she was already proving to be boring. As she looked over and noticed him she paled and shrieked, such a predictable reaction.

Sherlock could not help, but roll his eyes as he spoke:” “Honestly, these sort of reactions get very old very fast…”

The man however, oh his reaction was _interesting._ His expression was one of relief, of understanding, of recognition and as he turned to meet Sherlock’s gaze there was so much warmth there it startled him. Only one man had ever looked at Sherlock like that and that good man was never going to look at Sherlock again. This young doctor here, however had reached out his arms as if he were going to embrace Sherlock:” “I found you – finally I have found you!” he cried out. He gasped and fell on his knees. Sherlock suspected he was having a heart attack. 

“John!” the woman cried and rushed to her husband, gathering him into her arms. _Why did it have to be John?_ Sherlock thought bitterly. Paired with any other name the look on the stranger’s face might have meant less, but now watching him die on Sherlock’s carpet, where quite a few had sadly passed before, hurt him even more.

The woman looked up at him with blazing eyes: “What are you waiting for!? Call an ambulance, now!” she barked.

 

***

John looked down at his friend, still wondering the plains of Earth after having solved another case. He felt joy for his accomplishment; glad that even in afterlife the man was able to do what he most loved from time to time. It was even more impressive now – that Sherlock could work so well within the confining rules of the sprit world and yet – it was grossly unfair. Why was John here, in the otherworldly place labelled paradise and Sherlock Holmes with all his brilliance and the lives he had saved from destruction was condemned to this fate of being eternally confined to Earth?

John thought there must have been a greater plan to this thing. One that he did not yet understand. Despite having been in the afterlife for times and times again now. The weird thing about being dead was that no one ever still gave you the full disclosure. There were still secrets and things that no one seemed to have any knowledge of or if they did they kept you in the dark.

 For one thing, John had never actually met God. As he had died for the first time in the early 20th century with his best friend Sherlock Holmes by his bedside, having lived the life he had most enjoyed as Dr. John H. Watson, he had certainly believed in God. In fact, when he first raised havoc about the fact that Sherlock Holmes, the man who had done countless good deeds that were sure to outweigh whatever sins were on his soul, was not in heaven, the explanation given was that Sherlock Holmes had not been a believer and would therefore not be permitted into the blisses of afterlife.

Now, more experienced, he was sure that at the time, this excuse had been given to him to offer his Christian mind a simple answer that seemed to make sense so that he’d accept there was nothing he could do for Sherlock and simply move on and leave them alone. John had not accepted and moved on. He might not have had the deduction skills of Sherlock Holmes, but he knew when something had more holes than the Swiss cheese. For one thing, Irene Adler was there in the afterlife. She was hardly a virtuous innocent woman by the Christian standards of John’s former life. So if those standards truly meant something she should have not been there. As time went on John met many people in the afterworld who did not claim to be passionate believers. In fact, the very thing that aroused John’s suspicions in the first place was the fact John himself hadn’t been the best Christian. Sure, he was religious if anyone _asked,_ but he had seen enough horror in the war to doubt the existence of anything so great as God. His life in the afterworld had done nothing to ease those doubts away. If God did exist John wasn’t sure he wanted to meet him as he seemed to play with his creation in the most sadistic manner.

So the reason for Sherlock being trapped haunting the Earth must have been one of a different sort. However, what it was, John could never figure out. A common theory was that spirits had unfinished business in the world of the living that kept them, but John had no idea if that could be the case with Sherlock. If so, then did it mean casework? Was he truly never to rest until every clever crime had been committed? The thought seemed depressing.

While the life after death almost seemed more confusing up here than it had down on Earth, what was happening on Earth became absurdly clear. John supposed it was the matter of having a different perspective to look at things from. Of course, John mostly ever only looked at Sherlock, but he found he understood the man much better now. In his first life he had somehow failed to notice the extent of the man’s love for him. There had been occasions where that strong emotion had manifested itself, but John had not been able to comprehend how deep these feelings were. Indeed, it had not been his wife or his children (granted, none were alive) to sit with him on his death bed, comforting him with kind words while he was clearly the one in need of comforting himself.

No priest, even through there had been one of course at his death bed, could have brought John such peace of mind as the presence of his closest companion did: ”If there is a heaven, a concept which I must doubt, it’s doors are sure to be open to you, my Dear Watson.” 

John regretted not having been there for Sherlock when he died. He regretted having left him at all.

As John had not yet come up with a way to call Sherlock to join him, in the frankly overhyped settings of heaven, he tried, in every way possible, to join the man, or at least his ghost on Earth again.

The first time it had been right after he died. It had been so foolish thinking back, because even if Sherlock had been alive then, he would surely be dead by the time John reached adulthood. Despite that John could hardly watch Sherlock grieve him as he did, drowning himself in a sea of morphine whenever sadness overtook him. He still did his research with the bees and seemed to find little happiness in that, but John could easily tell he was never the same after his passing.

In his desperation John had found himself in his next life, ironically, quite close to Sherlock’s former home in Sussex. John never had any memory of Sherlock as he started out, which made things more difficult, but as his life went on, something would always happen to trigger those memories and resurface them.

In his next life as John Watson (John thought part of the reason the name was so common was, because he kept reusing it), little John actually met a very old beekeeper by the name of Sherlock Holmes. The man was bitter and not very friendly, but meeting him was apparently enough to remind John some of what he had come to do. 

It might have actually been John’s name that made Sherlock soften up to the young boy and tell him things about his research regarding bees, things John did not understand. John, in his child-like innocence tried to tell Sherlock that he had in fact come back to this world to find him. That did not work out well. The man took far more offense that was in any way appropriate to take from a 5 year-old boy. He refused to see John again and passed away some six months later.

That was the end of their companionship in John’s second life. As he grew he believed his own memories to be a creation of his young mind as well. He lived and practiced as a doctor, but died at an early age of 26, unmarried, childless and miserable, feeling like he had done no great things in his life.

Greater still was his disappointment when he returned to his afterlife to find Sherlock had not been permitted to join it. He raised havoc, but his efforts to make a difference were without a result.

It was not much later that John Watson was born again, this time in America. He heard of Sherlock through his own stories, which were still very popular all around. This time he was much more determined. Once he recalled his purpose in this life he would not let go of it. He was obsessed with the idea of moving to London and seeing their flat in Baker Street. Nothing else gave him drive, only his desire to see Sherlock. For many years he could keep his secret at bay, but eventually it cracked him and he died in a mental institution aged 26, having never visited London.

On his forth trip, Mary, with whom he was still as close as he ever was with anyone who wasn’t Sherlock, insisted she should come with. To help and keep John from making rash decisions.

 “At the rate you’re going at, alone it will take you hundreds of years to find him,” she had teased him in her friendly manner and John had agreed.

Their romance blossomed as easily as it had the first time around. They had no troubles finding one another and were married with children quite early on. John was already in his twenties, but had barely thought of Sherlock. However, after reading his own old writings again, he remembered.

He began to dream of Sherlock. Every single night the man haunted his dreams with their adventures, things that were never written, feelings that were never spoken were present there in this world built of memory.

At first it amused Mary, then it started to worry her, then eventually she grew upset with John .

“Fine,” Mary agreed on one beautiful spring morning. She was looking out to the green landscape of British countryside, sipping her tea and deliberately ignoring her husband’s gaze: “We will visit London and we will go to Baker street and the quarters were Sherlock Holmes once supposedly lived, but John...” she turned and looked at her husband:“ Mark my words. This is important, if we – and I’m really only saying this to humour you, I really mean _when_ we find that there is no trace of a man named Sherlock, then you will take some time off work. You will rest and try to overcome your obsession with this man, but most importantly you will _put away every Sherlock Holmes book you own, put them into the fireplace and swear to never buy or read another.”_

John was desperate enough at this point to agree to selling his soul. He paid no mind to Mary’s conditions, because he was certain, _he knew_ that Sherlock Holmes was real and that his ghost would await for him in Baker street.

An overwhelming sense of recognition washed over John when he walked into his old flat. _This_ was home. None of the places he had visited in this life were as dear to him as this sitting rom. For the first time ever he saw glimpses of memories coming back to Mary as well, but she seemed to be fighting them off: “I must admit, John that there is something about this place that feels familiar to me.”

“You see it then now?!” John beamed, happy that her wife finally no longer thought he were a lunatic.

His happiness was short lived as Mary shook her head sadly: “No, John. There is no Sherlock Holmes here. Surely. Not alive nor dead.”

“Well we must wait a _bit longer!_ He will come!” John insisted desperately.

The landlord was marching up the stairs impatiently. They had gotten in on the excuse that they wanted to look at the rooms that were offered for rent.

“Well then?” The landlord enquired impatiently.

“We’ll take it!” John said without a moment’s thought. This was not something he had discussed with Mary in the slightest, but it seemed like the perfect opportunity.

“ _John!”_ she already protested: “We can’t decide just like that!”

“Nonsense,” John argued and got out his wallet to pay the first two week’s rent, relieved to find that he had that much on him.

 “John this is not what we agreed to! John this is madness!” Mary whispered angrily as soon as the man renting the place was out of sight: “I mean it was a bit mad before, but this now – it’s actually crazy.”

John wanted to argue that the mere fact that Mary remembered nothing of their previous lives didn’t actually mean that they hadn’t happened, but they knew how that woud sound so instead he said: “Just – let me have this little bit of time. Maybe this will be good for me, you wanted me to take some time off work. I’ll take some time off.”

“Not _like this,”_ Mary was on the verge of tears now, John hated hurting her so, but he knew he was right. He knew that this was what he had to do.

 “This is only feeding your madness.”

 “Two weeks, Mary. _Two short weeks_. This is all I ask! Then I’ll come home. I’ll come home to you and we’ll never speak of this again.”

Mary was preparing her next complaint when suddenly she noticed a tall man standing in the corner of the, dressed in a dark maroon dressing gown and she let out a cry of horror.

To this, the man only rolled his eyes: “Honestly, these sort of reactions get very old very fast…”

 Shivers ran across John’s back at the sound of that very familiar voice. As he turned he recognized the familiar features of the man he had been looking for all this time.

The emotion was almost too much to take: “I found you – finally I have found you!” he gasped desperately, his vision blurred, but it was not caused by tears of joy. He felt a sharp pain in his chest and he knew what was happening to him, but he could not stop it. John fell to his knees and his vision went black. He tried to fight it, because there was no way he could die now, not when he had come _so very close._ He could not loose Sherlock again. John heard Mary call out his name and then nothing, but darkness remained.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I might carry on at one point, but I wrote it so that It could just end here too and be open ended. I wasn't sure id I'll upload it, but I like the beginning.

It was odd – the sight before Sherlock. He had seen many men before this one loose consciousness on the carpets of 221b and yet this was different. 

The wife wept by his side: “Forgive me, Mister…”

“Smith,” Sherlock lied instantly and winced at his boring, unoriginal alias that practically screamed, “I’m made-up.” 

She didn’t seem to mind: “My husband, Mister Smith, has taken ill and has seems to have quite lost his mind claiming such nonsense to be true and making up such incredible impossible things. He seems so certain that they are real too,” she worried.

“I have learnt in my time that much of what has originally seemed impossible to all, but to me, have indeed, turned out to be true.”

The woman laughed: “He claims, that in his last life, he lived in this flat as Dr. John Watson with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, solving crimes. He believes that he will find him here.”

Sherlock went very still and quiet for a moment: “H-How could have he possibly?” Sherlock’s voice was, but a whisper, barely to be heard over the sounds of the city of London: “Sherlock Holmes – is dead, surely, if he ever lived.”

“He thinks his ghost will be here,” The woman wept and Sherlock felt like weeping too. Could this be? His forever-rational mind told him there had to be another explanation. But could there truly be such a large coincidence? What was it that his brother used to say about coincidences? The universe was rarely so lazy. 

“Pray, Madam, tell me your name?”

“Mary Watson,” said Mary, still distraught, but seeming to relax now that the sound of sirens was approaching the flat. Mr. Hudson had called the ambulance. If Sherlock Holmes has still had a beating heart it would have skipped a beat then. Maybe he would have even had a heart attack. 

 

Sherlock followed Mary and John to the hospital. Out of sheer curiosity if nothing else. He had, at first considered joining them in the car, but Mary had given him a stern look and asked: “Mister Smith. Whatever are you doing?”

This caught Sherlock off guard: “I thought I was coming along…” he admitted, before realizing just how stupid the suggestion had sounded. He didn’t even have to hear her reply to know so. 

“What for? There’s no reason to!” Mary said harshly and Sherlock wondered why it felt like a stab at his heart when she said so. There was no firm evidence; really, none at all, that this man who had just appeared in his flat was John. His John. 

It was still no trouble at all for Sherlock to come to the hospital. His ghostly form allowed him to get there almost before John did. It was not hard deducing which hospital he had been taken to either. The hardship lied entirely in avoiding Mary. She caught sight of Sherlock just once and was furious; saying that once John woke it would only make matters worse if Sherlock, or rather, Mister Taylor Smith, would stay. Sherlock found it rather funny that the same woman who had so often come between him and John, the woman John had chosen over him, and really, given the confides of his era, what else could have he done, was the same to separate them now. If it was John, after all. Sherlock desperately needed more data. He wanted to ask Mary what was John like, what were his likes, dislikes, fears, was he a doctor, what sort of moral code he went by? Sherlock needed to know it all and could not ask, because Mary was angry just to see Sherlock there. 

When John finally woke, late in the evening, it didn’t take him and Mary five minutes to get in a fight. 

“I know what I saw! He was there! I saw him!” Sherlock sighed, listening them behind the closed door to John’s room. John had never been the cleverest of men, but why couldn’t he just lie? Pretend he was fine and then go behind Mary’s back? Mary might have been too clever for John, but he ought to at least try. Sherlock tried to, rather unsuccessfully, to remind himself that this John was really in all likelihood nothing more than a mental patient. Not his John at all. 

“There was no one there. Just a man called Taylor Smith,” Mary said, her patience wearing thin. 

They ended up sedating John. A course of events that was unfavourable to Sherlock, because the drugs were unlikely to wear off before Mary’s return and that meant he couldn’t talk to John alone. 

Sherlock’s deductions on that front were correct of course, but that didn’t keep him from staying by John’s side while he slept, watching him. The man looked entirely different and yet Sherlock thought there was something alarmingly similar in his features. It was Sherlock’s imagination. He was sure. 

The following day John spent in sulking silence. He’d come to realize that his wife would not believe him, so he pretended to be asleep throughout her visit. Even when she called him out on it. He had employed the same tactic with the psychiatrist, although she was considerably better at pushing John’s buttons. Once or twice, the man seemed to break, but she eventually left when her hours were over. 

It was very hard for Sherlock to find out all this, because, while he could move from place to place in an instant, he was never invisible and therefore if he simply stood behind John’s door for very long listening, it would be weird. If the blinds were drawn down he could stand next to his window, but not much could be deduced that way unless the window was also open to let out sound. 

When the day was finally at it’s end and Sherlock was sure no one was there in John’s room he made an appearance: “Really, I thought sulking in silence was my thing.”

A happy smile decorated John’s face and he opened his eyes. They took Sherlock of guard and he took a step back. They were exactly as they have been. 

“What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” John teased while Sherlock took a moment to compose himself. 

“I believe I have. One of a dear friend,” he admitted. It was strange to Sherlock, the way in which John had accepted this truth, which had been impossible for Sherlock to wrap his mind around. 

“Not a ghost. You are however,” John almost sounded like he was accusing Sherlock of something, but Sherlock only nodded. 

“I’m glad you’re finally here. I thought I’d have to wait until they discharged me to come back to Baker street and see you and it doesn’t look like they’ll do that any time soon.”

“You need to talk to the psychiatrist,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“But I’m not insane!” John protested, only lowering his voice when Sherlock out a finger on his lips.

“I know John, but that doesn’t matter, because what you’re saying sounds crazy and people won’t easily believe what doesn’t fit into their narrow world view.”

“What do we do then?”

Sherlock considered: “It’s done now, isn’t it? You’ve proved that I’m real. To yourself if no one else. You’ve met me, seen my face, you’ve…” Sherlock fell silence, swallowed and once he continued his voice was only a whisper: “Given me the most incredible gift of all. Made me as happy as I’ll ever be. You can return to your wife now.”

John looked bewildered and a little bit disgusted: “What? You’ll expect me to move on? What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Am I not going to see you again?”

Sherlock seemed surprised: “Were you expecting to?”

“Yes! If course! After all this time I spent on trying to find you! I am not going to let go!” He tried to catch Sherlock’s wrist, but his fingers went through the pale skin. A sight which seemed to sadden Sherlock endlessly. He could have given anything to hold John one last time, but he had nothing left to give. 

“John you can’t expect to live in Baker street with a ghost.”

“Why the hell not?” John snapped.   
“It’s a waste of you life. Go be with Mary. The woman you love, the woman you are so clearly meant to be with that even death can’t due you part,” Sherlock smiled sadly. 

“Fuck, Mary! I spent several lifetimes trying to find you!” 

Sherlock was stunned: “Really?”

“Yeah. Of course. I rarely found you, but the first time I was little boy and I found you in Sussex.”

There was clarity in Sherlock’s eyes: “I do remember a small boy. I was very harsh on him, I’m afraid.”

John sighed: “Yeah. You were. But I kept looking from that moment on.” 

“And what were you planning to do once you found me?”

It was clear John had not thought of this: “Stay?”

“Until you died again? And then what? You might take several lifetimes to find me again. I do appreciate it John, but it sounds wasteful.”

John sighed: “Well then, why not help you get up there with me. Why are you still here?”

“I always thought that was because I was not a believer. Of course, in the present day, not everyone is…”

“That is what they tried to tell me, but I’m sure that’s not it.”

“Then it is not my choice? Then there’s not much we can do, is there?”

John thought about it: “I’ve never thought that to be the truth, honestly. Always felt like an excuse.”

“But you don’t know what it is either, do you?” 

John shook his head:”Well, I do have an idea. What if – if it’s like they say in all the books. That someone becomes a ghost when they have unfinished business? Do you feel like it could be like that? Is there anything like that?”

Sherlock thought about it:”Maybe.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I decided that it would have better flow if I just made it a little bit longer. So it will hopefully be in two parts. I've done it so that leaving it like-so would also work.


End file.
